Artorias of the Abyss
by Meta Aggron
Summary: A familiar darkness draws over the land of Lordran. From the blackest pits of existence the abyss rears itself again, striking a terrible blow to the town of Oolacile. Called in to face the encroaching evil, Knight Artorias, who has beaten the abyss before. But the rules have changed, and this time, the abyss may prove insurmountable.
1. A world unformed

Artorias of the Abyss

**A world unformed**

In the beginning, when the world was unformed and shrouded in fog, there was nothing but the above and below. Above, great, immortal dragons ruled, creatures that existed before time, granted the power of immortality from their stone scales. This was their land, their time, their age. But that was soon to change. For below, something was born in the darkness. A spark that would light the way for a new era. Fire. And with fire came light and dark, heat and cold, life and death. It stirred the soulless monsters that dwelled in the depths. Like moths to a flame, they came from the dark. The creatures of the below, who lay dormant since it all began. Within the beauty of the First flame, these creatures discovered great souls. The lord souls were discovered. These imbued the creatures that lived below with the great power of a soul. Power enough to challenge the immortal dragons. The first souls were claimed by Nito, the Gravelord and first of the dead, the witch of Izaleth and her daughters of chaos and finally Gwyn, lord of sunlight, alongside his faithful silver knights. With the power now possessed by them they challenged the dragons. Gwyn's mighty bolts of light peeled apart their stone scales. The daughters of chaos weaved great fire storms to burn their homes, the Arch trees. Nito unleashed a miasma of death and disease upon their exposed flesh. Seath the scale-less, an albino dragon born without the immortal scales, betrayed his own kind, thus the dragons were no more. Seath was granted a shard of a lord soul, and the great age of Lords began. But there was a fourth soul, found after the others and hidden from the great lords. The Dark soul. A thing of immense power, greater than the rest, was kept in secret then shattered into countless shards, each shard forming the essence of humanity. The age of Lords was known as the age of Fire as it flourished across the land. The place no longer ruled by the ancient dragons. They named this land, Lordran.

**The legends of Lordan**

You have all heard the legends of Lordran by now. A land so rife with power, mystery and heroes centuries old. Time in Lordran is convoluted, great warriors phasing in and out of history itself. The four mighty lords, the fall of New Londo, the war with the giants, the passage to Drangleic, The dark wraiths, the mighty abyss and of course, the Chosen undead. Yes indeed, the undead who would challenge the power of lords and overthrow them, taking their power as his own. Only, in the ancient legends it is written, that an undead would be chosen to leave the asylum in the north, and make pilgrimage to the land of ancient lords. The exploits of this warrior who strides across time as though it were naught are legendary, but many of his trials have been lost to the passage of history, many a victory unsung. Despite this, the warrior has become legend to those in Lordran, a symbol of hope to many, and disparity to many more. But Lordran is brimming with tales of heroes long forgotten, battles unwritten, and it is of them I wish to speak of. Many a hero has passed through this land, but one remains the pinnacle of his age. His story has never been truly recounted, yet his legend spoken to all, a hero known for acts he did not achieve.

Artorias. Champion of Darkness. Once, long ago, there was a great city, built by a great king to house immeasurable power. Of all its denizens only four were chosen to act as its elite protectors. Dragon slayer Ornstein, captain of the guard. King's blade Ciarin, the greatest assassin the world had ever known. Hawk-eye Gough, champion archer, unmatched with a great bow. And knight Artorias, with his unbendable will of steel and incredible skill with a great sword. Together, these four knights were dispatched across the land, dealing with threats to the age of fire at the command of Lord Gwyn, the lord of sunlight and keeper of one of the mighty Lord Souls. The dragons fell, the occult rebellion fell, even the accursed abyss of New Londo was vanquished. No one could hope to challenge the knights and survive. No one even dared. They were a force that the mountains would crumble before, their skills unmatched and their resolve unquestionable.

But time was running out for all things in Lordran. The age of fire was fading, the lord souls diminishing. Soon the dark of humanity would be upon the world. Humanity was a terrible threat to the great lords. They were creatures born form the almighty Dark soul. This soul, found after the others and hidden in secret, its power eclipsed that of all the other lord souls combined. Creatures born from the infinite fragments of the Dark soul could be no more than a threat to the age of fire and all it encompassed.

As time passed and humanity's growth remained unhindered, it became apparent this age of dark was inevitable. But then from nowhere, the curse appeared. A plague, so vile and horrific in its creation, swept the land, branding countless humans with the dark sign as it went. Those afflicted with the undead curse were granted immortality, but at a most terrible price. Every time a branded human died, it's flesh and soul are reborn from flame, but lesser than it was before. Death after death after death in the dangerous land of Lordran send the immortal undead insane. They lose their minds, their humanity, everything they had, burning in anguish time after time. They become hollow, a withered, decayed version of their former selves. Death. Rebirth. Death. Rebirth. The process never ends for many of the undead. The only way to retain their sanity is for an undead to offer a fragment of the dark soul to the flame, a shard of their own humanity. This can prolong their madness for a time, allowing the more carful undead to overcome the curse. But it lasted not, for this led to war amongst the undead, killing each other to claim the ever so precious shards of humanity they craved. And so, madness birthed madness and the plague continued. More and more fragments were offered, but it ultimately did little to save the ailing minds of the undead. Soon, the hollows were great in number, shambling aimlessly across the land, shells of the humans they had once been. But a problem, a flaw in the curse's destructive system soon became apparent. Every fragment of the dark soul offered to the flame strengthened Lord Gwyn and with it, the age of fire. But humanity itself was part of the cycle of the souls, and their very existence was what was killing the lords and ushering in the age of darkness.

And so, the world became trapped, an endless cycle that locked Lordran in eternal twilight. The curse that had once seemed poised to end it all became the thing that trapped countless millions in endless agony. To end the turmoil and correct the mistakes of the past, the legends sang of an undead who would be chosen to challenge the lords. His fate was yet undecided, whether he would extend the age of fire, or usher the age of dark, remained unknown even to the prophets who spoke of such a warrior. But his coming was as inevitable as the passing of the lords, only time would reveal this hero of the dark.

I am sure you are all very familiar with this tale and I wish not to repeat it to you. I have for you, another story. A legend yet to be told in its true form. The legend of Artorias, the Abysswalker. He was slayer of the dark wraiths, the life stealing monsters and enemies of all living things. He saved New Londo, defeating the abyss for the first time and earning his title. No mortal could walk the abyss and yet Artorias had surmounted its endless darkness. Forever more he would be known as the Abysswalker. But it was Oolacile that would test Artorias' mettle. The courageous knight and his faithful companion, the great wolf Sif, were dispatched to the town to halt the abyss once more. Driven by honour, they departed to put an end to the raging darkness and stop the abyss once and for all. Upon arrival the knight found its citizens hideously deformed, their humanity had been driven into wild mutation by the void itself. He tore through the town, his blade cleaving all before him, until he came face to face with the horrors of the abyss. Manus, the dread father. Darkness Incarnate, the primeval man moved to silence Artorias for good. But the knight was too fast, his blade piercing Manus' skull, allowing him to move in for a final, killing blow. The beast fell at his feet, the abyss vanquished for good and light returned to the realm. Thus, the legend of Artorias was born that day.

Or so many think. There is only so much a Legend can tell us. Artorias is from an age long passed, and the details of his exploits are long forgotten. But the fact is the Legend of the Abysswalker is only a fabrication at it's most serviceable. Yet even the true story of Artorias is still a tale of great honour and pride. The true story of the holy warrior deserves to be recalled one last time. Listen well, for I shall impart unto you the true events of Oolacile. What truly became of the almighty warrior. The tale of the Artorias of the Abyss.

**Cold reality**

Anor Londo. The Capital of Lordran. A great city for an age that had earned its fabled place in history. Gwyn, the lord of sunlight, a name that would echo across time, was the man responsible for this beautiful city of giants. Vast arches, titanic cathedrals, meticulously crafted architecture, all dominated the glittering skyline of Anor Londo. It was a beauty so pure, so divine, that many saw themselves unfit to gaze upon it. A golden city, for a golden age. Shafts of sunlight shone through the great stone arches, illuminating the city in the early light of day. In the streets below the denizens of the city of gods went about their business, conversing, trading, shouting and laughing, like any other part of the world. But Anor Londo was not like any other rugged city, for even the streets shone gold and its people wreathed in the finest garb in Lordran. Silk, diamonds, gold and titanite flowed through the trade routes, it's produce nothing more than the finest available. Men and women embraced each other, love flowing freely amongst the people. They talked excitedly, laughing and cheering amongst themselves in the crowded streets. The atmosphere was electric, the whole city was so rife with energy and feeling it could almost be felt in the very air. Towering above the crowd, giant steel-clad golems stood resolutely, halberds in hand. They protected the city, dispatching threats of all nature, from petty theft to dragon attacks. They bore little purpose here however as there was no crime to speak of in Anor Londo. Truly, there was beauty here the likes of which the world had never known, and likely would never know again. From his towering cathedral, the Lord Gwyn proudly surveyed his impressive work of art. His city was more than admirable, and all who gazed upon it never wished to be anywhere else.

That was the way Artorias remembered the great city, standing on the precipice of one of its great clock towers, wearily looking down upon the land, cloak flowing in the wind as he gripped to the masonry. His journey had been long, and he welcomed the sight of his homeland. But the view before him was far from such a perfect memory. Its buildings were still beautiful, its monuments still retaining their incredible stature. But its streets were empty, its people gone. So many had been lost to the undead curse, a mysterious phenomenon that appeared to be the harbinger of a dark age that was soon to come. The age of fire was fading, the power of lords waning. It was a fact the deities of the great city were all too aware of. And it terrified them. The age they had built for themselves, the centuries of work and war, was it all to come to an end? But the proof was evident to all. The ancient bonfires across the land had begun to fade, and now the immortal curse of the undead sweeps through Lordran, consuming all it touches under its almighty folds.

Artorias indulged himself for a moment, gorging his eyes on the view, the city, the mountains sweeping off into the distance, the rising sun, blood red on the horizon. The duke's archives, the index of global knowledge, sat atop the hill to the west of the city. It stood as a symbol of intelligence and wisdom, just as the city was a symbol of glory and power. To the east was Sen's fortress, a bastille of strength and honour, where the remaining silver knights of Lord Gwyn trained tirelessly, in preparation for the coming age of darkness. And even Anor Londo retained its beauty, though it was a beauty devoid of life.

It was this that brought Artorias to Anor Londo. The age of dark. It was no secret that darkness was coming. Surly it was but a fool's errand to even try and stop it. At best the inevitable could be postponed, but stopping it. Lord Gwynn was undoubtedly a great and wise man, but Artorias had his doubts about the king's sanity. He was on the brink of madness, the thought of losing his age of sunlight was tearing him apart. It was common knowledge amongst the knights that many of his dukes and bishops had deserted him, a move that had shattered their already fragile faith in the lord of sunlight.

But now was not the time to question Gwyn's resolve. Artorias was not here to meet the king, and doubted he was even present in the city anymore. No, he was here at the request of an old friend. He had been in Drangleic, a wild frontier discovered across the sea to the east. Many fleeing Lordran saw the land as a new start, a place where hope still remained. There was no curse to speak of in Drangleic, and its vast open spaces were ripe for a new order. A new world. Many had already left, fleeing the black and withering land that Lordran had become. Artorias had been escorting the fleet of sunlight, Lord Gwyn's personal fleet. Princess Gwynevere, Gwyn's daughter had been aboard the fleet, and Artorias had been selected as her personal escort. It had not been an easy voyage, leviathans plagued the waters between the two lands. Artorias and the Royal guardsmen fought valiantly, repelling all that would pose a threat to their fleet. Days of sailing had landed the fleet at Drangleic with losses kept to a minimum. The land was just as they had imagined. Rolling hills, great mountains, luscious forests, a land fresh and clean, the new start so many of them desired. Already small villages and settlements had sprung up across the coast line. Large thatched-roof houses, improvised wooden structures, even a few stone buildings were visible along the coastline as the remains of the fleet approached. Majula, a village comprised of the old residents of Anor Londo, was by far the largest settlement there. The fleet ran aground on the shores of Drangleic, ascending the Cliffside to reach Majula. The citizens of the small town welcomed the Royal fleet and were eager to negotiate with the people of Lordran. Within days, deals were struck, the boats were stripped and repurposed, and the supplies the fleet delivered were distributed fairly. Within days, they had been integrated into society. Already they were hard at work, rapidly expanding the borders of Majula, their advanced tools and magic allowing them to increase the work rate exponentially. Lordran seemed a distant memory by now. Artorias was looking forward to a new life here, far from the trials and tribulations of Lordran. He had lived a life of adventure, slaying countless foes in defence of his home land. But those were days long passed. But he was ready for this, a quieter, more civilized existence. This is what he wanted. So for many years he remained, protecting the city from threat, leading expeditions into the vast and untamed wilderness of Drangleic in search of resources. He quickly rose up amongst the citizens of Majula, a symbol of their success and a hero amongst their ranks. But the peace was not to last for him. On a day like any other, the past came calling for him once more.


	2. Wild East

**The Wild East**

Despite the usual snows of winter, Majula had been lucky this year. The cold was harsh and biting, but the lack of snow allowed work to progress unhindered. The hunting party tore through the forest, hot on the heels of their prey. The men were agile and light footed, leaping effortlessly over the fallen trees and debris that littered their path. The men knew this forest well, as it had long been their hunting ground. The trees were a second home to them, the forest floor felt all too familiar underfoot. The winds carried the scent of their game, driving them on, directing them towards their prey. Senses sharp, eyes keen, the men tore through the undergrowth at immense speed. But it seemed that even the forest had turned against them this day, for the herd of deer they had tracked so relentlessly seemed to be evading them with ease. The herd never seemed less than ten steps ahead. The men stumbled to rest, drained from the madness of the hunt. There were six of them, dressed in light, brown leather armour. It was furred around the collar, keeping out the harsh cold of winter. Metal straps and buckles crisscrossed the armour, holding it all together. Every man had a quiver of arrows slung over their shoulder, short bows in hand. They gathered in a clearing, resting heavily on the fallen trees around them.

"Well this is just perfect." A large, bearded man exclaimed. "Bloody perfect. Look, if we don't finish this hunt, Majula doesn't eat, do you all understand that?"

The men nodded resolutely, none meeting the man's stern gaze. They lowered their weapons, wearily checking them.

"What's the plan then Oro? How we gon' catch these nippy buggers?" A thin lean man called out. Oro puffed his chest and drew a large hand axe from his belt.

"The same way we have for years." He smiled.

"But these deer aint like the rest, Oro! They faster than usual!"

"Then it looks like we're gonna have to be faster than usual as well. We aint about to be got the better of by a pack o' wild animals." Oro spat.

The men remained glum, staring destitute at their feet, twiddling their thumbs and half-heartedly checking their equipment. Even Oro seemed somewhat disconnected. It was true, the white deer they were perusing had to be of some new breed. There was no way the usual beasts of this forest were that fast.

"Having fun?"

The clear, commanding voice cut through the silence of the forest, every man suddenly turning to its origin. Perched high in the trees, dressed in the same light armour, a large grin on his face sat a young, powerful looking man. He was tall, well built, muscle coursing beneath the thin armour. His bright white hair glowed under the light of the setting sun, a light beard covering his chin. His eyes shone brightly, the red pupils piercing the forest, stark against his pale skin. His face cracked into a wide, toothy grin as he crouched in the tree tops. He had a large bundle strapped up in leather slung over his shoulder.

"Jeddit!" Oro exclaimed, the other men rising to their feet quickly. Jeddit was the captain of the guards, champion hunter and defender of Majula and its people. He was a highly respected warrior throughout the whole of Drangleic, even if it was a young nation. He was seen as a shining example of the potential this wondrous land possessed. It was said he had once been a warrior of some kind, back in the distant land of Lordran. But few remembered if this was truth, and fewer still cared. Jeddit's origins were irrelevant, he existed now as a sentinel of order in this wild frontier.

"You look a little down on your luck. Perhaps I can offer my assistance?" he laughed, leaping from the tree. Despite the height of the fall, he hit the ground silently and without injury, a small cloud of dust erupting from beneath his feet. He stood up and strode toward the group of hunters, towering over them, authority instantly transferred to him. The men all rose to greet him as he approached, even the gruff Oro.

"Master Jeddit." The men bowed.

"Cut that. I am not your master. So, you hunt the white deer, yes? Hmm, well you'll need bows greater than these sorry things." He muttered, picking up one of the hunter's short bows and examining the weapon. Despite his insults, it was still a well-crafted and balanced device.

"We uh, we almost had em!" One of the younger men chimed in. "But the blighters outran us before we could sink our teeth."

"Mm hmm, so you…what you want to hunt them with this rubbish?" he callously tossed the bow to the young hunter.

"Y-yes sir." He stuttered.

Jeddit turned to Oro, the large bearded man. Placing a hand upon his shoulder he smiled and gazed deeply into the man's eyes.

"Oro my good friend. I understand the skill and prowess of both you and your men is outclassed by none, but you cannot hope to hunt these creatures with such poor excuses for weapons now, can you? You and your men deserve better."

"Poor excuses for-" Oro spluttered, brushing Jeddit's hand off his shoulder and puffing out his chest. "I'll have you know these weapons were hand crafted by Ornifex, the greatest smith in Majula!"

"How very interesting" Artorias yawned, pacing across the clearing. He unhitched the bundle from his shoulder, laying it upon the ground. As he began to undo the leather fastenings, the men slowly gathered around him, intrigued by the nature of the package. He unrolled the cloth, revealing its contents. The men gasped, taking a step back. Seven short bows lay before them, the likes of which they had never seen before. Black steel interlocked with titanite trim, a light and flexible darkwood frame leading into a hand weaved string, likely crafted from Ray silk. The bows were beautiful, compact and light. The perfect tool for any hunter. Quivers full of arrows lay by their sides, the black painted shafts tipped with phoenix feathers. Jeddit drew an arrow, revealing the most deadly looking head the hunters had ever seen. Red steel, twisting and writhing into a deadly point. It would lacerate the flesh and punch a hole through a target. These weapons were built to destroy a foe, not just kill them.

"Yeah well, I mean you can keep those if you like. It's just…well Ornifex might be offended if her new model was just left laying here. Or, I guess I could take em' back."

"Now hold on a second there Jeddit" Oro blustered. "Let's not be hasty here! Let us a look at those bows, perhaps it's time for an upgrade..."

"That so?" Jeddit cocked his head to one side, looking about the group. He smiled and nodded towards the splayed out package.

"Galdour Black bows. First of their kind. They're still warm…for…some reason."

He snatched up one of the bows, vaulted a fallen oak and sped into the forest. The other men looked at each other, shrugged and grabbed a weapon, sparing a moment to admire the beautiful craftsmanship before tossing down their old weapons and dashing off in pursuit.

It was evening the when the seven men finally gathered by the edge of a long cliff that overlooked the open plains of central Drangleic. A small camp fire blazed a few meters away, but not a single man sat by its welcoming glow. All were stood by the very edge of the cliff, peering down at the sight below them. For residing upon the Great Plains, a herd of white deer could be clearly seen a short distance away. The men had spent the latter half of the day hurtling through the forest once more, hot on the heels of their master hunter. They had finally breached the forest and found themselves in a rolling, beautiful rocky grassland that stretched as far as the eye could see.

This was the frontier of Drangleic, a vast open land home to countless species they had yet to encounter. Few had truly explored this wilderness, and fewer still were willing to undertake such a task. Hordes of wilder beast could be seen roaming the plains, grunting and bellowing to one another. Many more deer stood in great herds a few miles away, gathered in the safety of the hills. Rock worms burst from the ground sporadically, snatching up smaller, unsuspecting prey before diving back underground. And in the distance a swarm of Drakes, men who had forsaken their flesh and become dragons, circled some unseen prey. Long before the citizens of Lordran had travelled to Drangleic, there had been a cult that worshiped the ancient dragon, a creature said to reside in the mountains seen far to the west. In honour of this beast, they had delved deeply into ancient and dark magic to try and create an army in its form. In a cruel twist of fate, the spell backfired and the men found themselves transformed into great beasts themselves. Shunned from their homes, the poor souls now patrolled the far mountains, forever trapped in their new forms. Yet the hunters had little interest in the goings on of the Frontier. They were here for one purpose, and no Drake nor Rock worm would stand in their way.

"Are you all adequately prepared?" Jeddit called out to the hunters. They nodded, each one standing at his sides, bows ready and arrows notched. They had been scheming for a little while, and were finally ready to execute their plan.

Jeddit gazed at the herd a moment longer before raising an open hand. Slowly, he counted down from three to one, then clenched his fist.

All at once, the men leapt from the cliff, taking aim mid-flight at their designated targets and loosing their arrows into the herd. The arrows whipped through the air as the men fell, tearing silently into the herd, blood erupting form their wounds as the lacerating arrows tore into their hides. The deer screeched and dispersed, several of them falling to the ground. The hunters hit the ground, rolling to absorb the impact and notching another set of arrows. Kneeling in a line, they took aim once more and fired simultaneously. The finely crafted bolts tore through the air, cutting a straight line to their targets, deadly tips ready to kill. The deer tried to flee, but not before the second volley of arrows slammed into the herd. Several dropped instantly, the bolts piercing their heads, some left to stagger onwards before succumbing to their wounds. By the end of the assault twelve deer lay dead, the others escaped. Killing them all would destroy the population, and the hunters needed something to hunt. So they allowed them their freedom, claiming their prizes instead of perusing the herd. They slung the massive forms over their shoulders, not waiting for the local wildlife to take an interest.

It was almost midnight when the hunters returned to Majula, the deer hung heavily across their shoulders. As they approached the town, many citizens left their houses to welcome them home, some cheering from the windows and others applauding them in the streets. Many of them rushed to relieve the hunters of their burdens and take the precious meat to be stored. Jeddit handed his catch to some townsfolk willing to carry it for him and departed, allowing the hunters to enjoy their victory. He hated crowds, and this was the Hunter's success, not his. He had never been one for attention, yet it seemed to follow him wherever he went.

He opened the door to his hut, a small affair on a peak just outside of the town. The hand built hovel struck many as dilapidated, small and unsightly. Jeddit enjoyed the confinement and isolation it offered. But to his surprise, he arrived to find a letter pinned to its door. It was crisp, quality paper, sealed with a wax crest in the shape of a lion. Snatching the letter from the door he entered the shack and tore it open. It read as follows:

Artorias

Lordran bleeds.

By order of the king you are to return immediately.

Fulfil your duty as knight of the realm.

We await your return from Drangleic. Meet us at Anor Londo. The chamber of the Princess.

We will discuss business further upon your arrival. Ciarin will be there.

D.S.O

Artorias.

That name again.

It has been so many years since he had been addressed as Artorias. A lifetime ago in fact. He gazed blankly at the letter, dumbstruck, reading and re-reading it over and over again. Lordran bleeds. Ciarin will be there. Anor Londo. So many names from a past he thought long gone. Why now? How had they even located him here? He had tried all he could to distance himself from Lordran, that land of pain and perdition. He had crossed the sea, served the princess and people here in Majula, changed his name and donned a new persona. Jeddit the hunter. He was happy here, happy with his new life. Why couldn't the past leave him to his own devices? Yet here it was, the summons he had been dreading he would one day receive. He read the letter one more time, then fell back into his chair, head in his hands. What was he to do? He could not simply abandon Drangleic at the bequest of a piece of lost kingdom. He was not the man he had once been. And yet…

Jeddit could not shake the feeling that this was his true calling. It was an uneasy sentiment that his heart felt so willing to give up all he had, but he could not deny the excitement he felt. D.S.O. Could it be…Ornstein? Surely, the long disappeared Dragon slayer was dead. And yet, it was his seal that was embossed upon the letter. He tried to ignore the feeling in his heart, but as the days went on, he found his mind constantly on the thought of Lordran. It was, after all, his birthplace. He still felt some obligation to serve it. And that name. Ciarin. His lover. He left the note upon the hearth for several days, yet curiosity constantly turned Jeddit's thoughts back to the mysterious message.

It had been a long day, Jeddit had been out in the fields, working with the others to build more homes. Heavy stones in hand, laying layer after layer of rock to build the great houses. It was simple work, lifting, carrying, laying the sealant upon the stone, placing one after another. His immense frame towered above the other men, the large slabs seemingly weightless in his hands. The freezing cold burned at their skin, light snow descending upon them. It reminded Jeddit of the bitter winters in Lordran. There it was again. His thoughts were flung back to Lordran. He remembered those long winter nights he had spent with Ciarin, the two of them sitting upon the great castle of Sen, gazing into the early sunset. Those days had been good to him, before it all fell apart. Before the curse. He finally caved. No longer could he supress his urges. Lordran bleeds. The words cut into his soul, the thought of his ruined homeland invading his every thought. Ornstein could very well be alive and beckoning for his aid, who was he to deny him that request? He returned to his shack that evening. Once more he raised the floorboards and removed a large wooden trunk. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the lid. It was still there, just as he had left it. Shinning brilliantly from within the trunk. A set of the most magnificent armour. Steel plate, azure cloth, a heavy shield, an immense sword and a menacing helmet. He allowed a smile to cross his lips at the sight of his old gear. Raising it to the light, he examined the detailed armour. Not a scratch, just the way he left it. It looked as though it still fit too. Glancing around the shack, Jeddit took a deep breath before returning to the armour. It was time.


	3. A Knightmare in Azure

Striding down the street, the azure cloth across his left shoulder flowing in the wind, Helmet obscuring his face with an unnatural shadow, a towering warrior approached the docks. In his right hand he wielded a massive iron kite shield, engraved with a detailed carving of a great flowering tree. In his left, a blade that looked as if a mountain would be no match for it. Men and women gazed slack jawed as he casually walked through the streets, the very definition of magnificence. He approached the docks, as casually as a man on a summer stroll, massive great sword in hand. The dock master turned to him, stumbling to his feet at the sight of the man. The towering figure stood mere feet away, gazing facelessly at him. A crowd of no less than the whole village was gathered behind him now.

"I require a boat to Lordan." He spoke, his voice deep and commanding, yet instantly recognisable.

The Dock master simply stared at him. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. By now the crowd had gathered broken out into excited chatter. "Jeddit!" they whispered. "What is he doing, where is he going, what's with the armour?" The conversation flowed freely among those who had come to witness the event.

"J-Jeddit? Is…Is that you?" the man stuttered.

The towering knight looked around, facing the crowd, his face a black void, the impossible shadow hiding his features. He looked back at the old dock master and shook his head slowly.

"My name is Artorias."

The crowd fell silent, all of them gaping at the massive man. Oro, the hunters, the Dock master, all stood in stunned silence. The knight brushed past the Dock master, boarding a small vessel and casting off without a word. He stood at the helm, looking back at the crowd as they slowly disappeared from view. Not one of them stopped him. Not one dared. They just stared, unsure how to process this sudden turn of events. He too simply stared, watching as Drangleic faded from view. He was thankful for the helmet. They needn't see his tears.

It had originally been simple curiosity that drew Artorias back to the distant land of Lordran. He landed safely from his voyage at the port town of New Londo. His passage was secured, as his reputation still held true, even after decades of absence. He was welcomed back to city by a lone man, a gate keeper dressed in a traditional red cloak. The two walked through the port, now dead silent. To the knight's horror, he found the underground city in decayed ruin, most of it completely submerged in black water. Towers and spires were jutting form the dead water, houses could be seen under its still surface The man who welcomed him explained that New Londo had become home to the undead curse, a problem in itself. Though the curse was bad, it did not prompt the flooding of a city. No, it was far more dire than that. Something, some horrendous force had found its way to New Londo. Those long thought defeated, by Artorias himself. The poor fools of the city had been tricked by the primordial serpent, and had awakened something evil. The dark wraiths had returned. Without the knight present, the city and its countless civilians and riches had been sacrificed to contain them. Artorias shuddered to think how many corpses lay beneath the icy water. It was here that curiosity became panic. Fearful that time may already have run out, the knight journeyed with haste across the dangerous ruin of Lordran, a fallen land now overrun with countless abominations. His journey was swift, the creatures of Lordan no match for his blade. He ascended the steps from New Londo, reaching the fabled Firelink shrine. He took a moment to check his supplies, warming himself at the undying bonfire. Firelink was said to be the place the chosen undead would someday arrive, a legend Artorias had always kept close to his heart. It gave him hope when none seemed present. He left the shrine, battling his way through the shambling hollows of the Undead Parish. He journeyed through the Dark Root gardens, facing the seven headed hydra that guarded the lake in its basin. He proceeded through to Sen's fortress, navigating its deadly traps and serpent-men warriors. He ascended the great steps up the cliff face, scaled the mighty wall and finally, he came to face the glistening city of Anor Londo. And now that he was here, his fears were confirmed. The curse was far worse than anyone could have foreseen. Lordran's time was almost up.

And here he was. Clinging to a tower, overlooking the great city, thinking back over his journey. Free of his thoughts, he leapt from the tower, plummeting towards the street below. The plates of his great armour clanked together, the azure cloth about his neck and waist lashed in the wind. He hit the ground, a soft explosion of magic cushioning his fall, cracking the stone beneath him and sending rubble and brick dust into the air. Approaching the citadel at a stride, he raised his great sword in greeting, as the few citizens that remained had fallen back to guard the great spiralling Citadel. The weapon was huge, a beautifully crafted blade, designed as a two handed weapon. But to Artorias, it was weightless, built in his name, the immense great sword had been crafted using techniques that were usually reserved for divine weapons only. The blade was long, wide and detailed with ornate carvings that had been forged into the steel. The core was pure magic, blue light softly spilling through a line in the centre of the blade. It had been designed this way, exposing part of the powerful magic core allowed him to focus its power against ghosts and demons alike. The guardsman that once watched the gate were absent, likely claimed by the curse. No problem, he thought, forcing the great doors of the citadel open by hand. The slowly opened, a brilliant light pouring from within. He strode in, his steps measured and his stride deliberate. Every aspect of the man emanated power and control. His steel armour, the flowing azure cloth, his well-paced step. Not one thing was out of line. He ignored the magnificence of the citadel. Great artworks and flowing tapestries adorned every wall, weapons and treasured lined the vast hallways, secured in equally well-crafted displays. The heads of countless foes slain by the legendary heroes of Anor Londo adorned the walls, the heads of giants, drakes, demons, but most of all Dragons. He even ignored the dead silence too, as he walked down the centre of the great open hall. He reached the end, met with the doors of the chamber of the princess. Placing his great sword upon his back, he took a deep breath, then forced them open stepping into the room.

His eyes were met with a familiar sight. The smaller, yet no less impressive room was as richly adorned as the one before. A great stained glass window overlooked the city, paintings and statues lining the walls. A vacant throne sat at the back of the chamber, a statue of the mighty lord Gwyn behind it. The princess Gwynevere had deserted Anor Londo sometime before, crossing the sea to the distant land of Drangleic with Artorias and the fleet. But her presence was not required and the chamber was now the meeting place of all operations condoned by Lord Gwyn. Once again, the knight ignored the spectacular artworks. For in the centre of the room stood a figure. She was tall, feminine, dressed in a loose suit overlaid with several steel plates. It was the same azure material that adorned Artorias' gear. The two blades at her waist, the gold and silver tracers, were thin and elegant daggers. She was a warrior no doubt. As she moved the suit seemed to pulse and ripple, a feature designed to be used in combat. At the user's command, the armour would explode into shadow, extinguishing all light and concealing the wearer. This armour was incredibly rare, they were usually presented as a gift granted to only the highest ranking of the Dark moon assassins. Standing before Artorias was none other than the appointed commander of the Dark moons. Ciarin the King's blade. Artorias' friend and lover.

"Ciarin!" he called out to her, his voice cutting through the silence of the room.

She turned to him, her beauty instantly apparent. Her pale face was smooth and stern, her features well defined. A strand of her long black hair fell across her forehead, drawing attention to the deep, purple eyes that were a mark of the Dark moon assassins. Artorias had never seen a more perfect woman in all of his days. To him, she was the most beautiful woman alive.

"Artorias!" she replied, running across the room to meet him. They embraced, holding each other tightly.

"Artorias my love, I had heard you would be joining us, but still, to see you again after so long…it's good to see you." She trailed off, staring at the black void of Artorias' helmet. His helmet was a unique design, two metal fins on either side of the face, merging into a rounded cap with a long black plume atop it. However, unlike most helmets, there was no face plate. Instead, the azure cloth about his neck was joined to the base of the two plates, and his face was merely obscured by an unnatural shadow. She put a hand to his face, stroking gently.

"You still insist on hiding yourself? Should you not allow the world to know the face of its greatest hero?"

"You know how I work. I like it this way. Besides, by order of Gwyn my identity is to remain unannounced to those outside of the four knights."

She gazed at him with a bemused expression.

"We are the knights, Artorias."

"Yes"

"And I have seen your face before"

"Yes"

"So…"

Ciarin slowly slide back the helmet, revealing the mouth of the warrior, a light skinned, emotionless feature. The light stubble beard and a heavy chin, his thin mouth set in a solid line. She was more than familiar with his features. Despite his apparent lack of joy at seeing his lover, Ciarin smiled and gently kissed his grim lips. She pulled him in deeper, closing his eyes and caressing his face affectionately. Artorias submitted, raising a hand to the back of Ciaran's head. He wanted to remain here, by her side for the rest of his life. Little mattered to him with her, his problems dissipating every second they were together. He had missed her presence in Drangleic. Despite his young appearance Artorias had been alive longer than he would care to admit, and in his time he had faced horrors and defeated foes that would have broken the will of most men. He had rarely a chance to admire the things around him, for duty would have him thrust head first into some new peril day after day. But the one thing that mattered the most to him was Ciarin. She was incredible, a powerful warrior and a deadly assassin, but most of all his closest friend. She and Artorias had spent many nights sat atop the roof of the cathedral, lamenting over their pasts, and the many undertakings they had performed together. But she was more than just a partner to him, they were lovers with the deepest respect for each other. He allowed it to continue, a feeling unlike any other consumed his senses. He ran a hand down her spine, pulling her close. She in turn placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled, leaning in for another kiss. He was enrapt with her, but knew it had to end. He let it go on for a little longer, savouring the feeling of her lips on his, her tongue resting in his mouth, then gently pushed Ciaran away, replacing his helmet to obscure his face. There was no time for affection in Lordran.

"It's been far too long" He smiled.

"Are you two quite finished?" A crisp, loud voice sliced through the room. It was tinged with a slight accent, the vowels extended to some degree. Artorias recognised it instantly. The two turned to see who had joined them, and were each met with a familiar sight.

A man had entered the room behind them, dressed head to toe in armour. And what magnificent armour it was. The whole suit was gold plated, perfectly reflecting the light of the sun. The leggings were smooth plates, spiked at the knee and toe, a large plate skirt worn over them. The smooth torso consisted of several interlocking metal plates, designed to give the wearer increased mobility in battle, without lowering the effectiveness of the armour. Sweeping shoulders flowed seamlessly into the plated arms, a chainmail under layer visible between the gaps. But it was the helmet that drew the eye. It was designed to resemble the head of a lion, a design that snarled forward at its foe, crafted in striking detail. A large red plume swooped from the back of the head, traipsing down the man's back. Its heavy plate design was very similar to Artorias' own armour, though his was wreathed in the azure cloth he valued so much. And whereas Artorias had left his armour the colour of steel, the knight before him had plated his gold, creating an image of grandeur. And it worked. The suit of armour was nothing less than spectacular to behold. It looked like it belonged in a museum, rather than on the field of battle. It was elegantly detailed, the helmet so striking in its design. Clutched in his hand was a long gold staff, tipped with an immense winged spearhead. This was a weapon of glory, the spear of the dragon slayers, designed to tear through a dragons heavy scales once they had been brought to ground. For the man before him was a legend in his own right. Captain of the four knights, this was Dragon slayer Ornstein.

"You know, it's funny" he said, striding towards the two, carelessly swinging the spear about himself. "I thought I was meeting the great knights of Lord Gwyn. Yet all I see are you two fools."

"Ornstein? You..." Artorias trailed off, shocked at the sudden appearance of the supposedly dead dragon slayer. Ornstein walked straight for him, looked Artorias up and down and then embraced him, their armour clinking together. Ornstein patted him on the back and they released each other.

The dragon slayer backed away, looking between the two of them.

"The blade of the dark moons, The Abyss walker and the dragon slayer. It has been too long since we were together, my dear friends. I hope the world has been kind to you."

Ciaran stepped forward, a look of anger on her face. She raised a hand, stared at Ornstein, then lowered it.

"I mean not to be rude, Dragon slayer. But you owe us a damn fine explanation!"

"What do you mean?"

"You vanished! You disappeared without a trace nor word of warning. That was years ago, and now you expect to stride back in here as if nothing happened?"

"Correct."

She opened her mouth to reply, but instead consigned to silence. Arguing with Ornstein was an art form, it required time and patience to master. Two properties Ciarin had always lacked.

"I apologise for my discretion" Ornstein continued, his magnificent armour catching the sun again as he paced back and forth.

"I truly am, but there was reason enough behind my leaving that you need only understand it was of the utmost urgency. By appointment of Lord Gwyn himself. But it is with a heavy heart I was forced to contact the two of you. For my mission ran foul and I am afraid I returned in failure. I apologise for being the one to deliver such dire news"

Artorias turned to his companion who grimaced, shook her head then looked back to Ornstein. "What news is this, my brother?" She questioned.

Though his emotions were obscured by the cat-like helmet, Artorias could sense the sadness in him. Ornstein reached to a pouch on his hip, drawing from it a ring. It bore the sigil of a hawk upon it.

"Hawk-eye Gough, the legendary giant archer, member of the four knights and most of all our brother, has fallen."

There was a long silence. The two knights stared through their masks at each other, Ciarin's face going from inane anger at Ornstein to a stone cold and emotionless expression.

"Oh..." Ciaran muttered. "How…did he fall, Ornstein? What took him from us?"

Ornstein turned away from them, walking towards the throne of the princess. He ran his hand across its arm, admiring the carpentry of the long vacant chair, the gems inlaid in its intricate design. A throne for the ages, no doubt about it. Suddenly, without warning, he hurled his spear across the room. It crackled with lightning as it flew, smashing into the wall beside him, burying itself deep in the stone and releasing a burst of electricity. He looked over his shoulder at Artorias, clenching his fist and shaking angrily.

"The abyss" He spat the words as if they carried a bitter taste, striding across the room and wrenching his spear free of the masonry.

Artorias stepped back, shocked at what he heard. No, there was some mistake. There was no way Ornstein's words were true. The Abyss? Artorias thought the abyss long banished. His name, the Abyss walker, had been officially sanctioned to him by Gwyn when he had halted its deadly spread in the city of New Londo. No mortal could survive in the abyss, and it was only by mastering dark magic long thought lost, placing a transient curse upon himself that Artorias was able to strike the darkness at its heart. But in truth, his memories of his time in the abyss were few and fleeting, a side effect of the ancient magic. All he truly remembered was fear, bleak and all consuming, like the dark itself.

"The abyss?" he repeated. "But…how can it….where?"

Tearing it from the wall, Ornstein proceeded to rub the brick dust from the end of his spear. "Oolacile. A small town south of here. No one knows why or what happened. The rumours are that the foolish sorcerers of the town attempted to awaken the tomb of primeval man. Though what could possess them to do such a thing is beyond imagination. Perhaps they sought his power, perhaps they were deceived into the act. Maybe…that damned serpent... Never mind, the cause is irrelevant. All that matters now is that the Abyss has been awakened once more. Gough and I were dispatched to deal with it. But the citizens of Oolacile have been warped, transformed into horrific beasts. They overwhelmed us, taking Gough from right before me. I tried to save him, but they were too great in number. I barely escaped with my life."

"That's why you called me here? To stop the abyss?"

"Yes"

"I can't"

"Yes you can"

"Damn it Ornstein! I can't do it again! I can't go back into the darkness!"

"Then why bother calling you Abyss walker!?" Ornstein boomed, his voice shaking the room. "What are you if not the man that the beasts fear!? What are you if not your name and title!? The man who strides darkness, who can crush evil with a swing of his blade!? You exist to honour your own name. Now do it damn you!"

There was a moments silence between them, Artorias and Ornstein staring each other down. There was no emotion, their helmets obscuring their features. But the men knew how the other felt. Only Ciarin was left to bear her feelings upon her features, as a look of anger annoyance crossed over her.

"Live up to your name, Knight of Gwyn. Unless you aren't up to the challenge."

Artorias looked at the shield in his hand and the blade upon his back. Damned Dragon slayer. He was right.

"Not up to the challenge?"

Artorias drew his almighty blade, swinging it in a flourish, a demonstration of his immense skill with the tool. It was no blade to him, but an extension of his soul, his very existence. He planted his feet, the blade arched over his head, a classic combat stance. He bowed his head and rose to a stand, sheathing the blade upon his back once more.

"I shall face the abyss, and halt its accursed spread. I swear by my knighthood."

Ornstein nodded and turned to Ciarin.

"The abyss may be the largest threat to us at the present, but is by no means the only one. Kalameet the Black, the last of the dragons has finally been located. With Gwyn no longer present, protecting Anor Londo falls to me. I am to deal with the threat before it gets out of hand. As I am sure you are aware, if but one dragon were to make it to Anor Londo, the destruction would be immeasurable. As the last dragon slayer, I must fulfil my duty. Kalameet will fall, but I am afraid this means I cannot accompany you to Oolacile."

"So then Ciarin is to be my partner?" Artorias cut in.

"No, I am afraid not. She is to accompany me. Usually, Gough and I would travel together. His talent as an archer was invaluable to me. When the dragons were a very present threat, his arrows would halt them mid-flight, forcing them to ground, in range of my spear. But at Gough's loss, Ciarin's proficiency in soul sorceries will be of equal use against Kalameet."

Artorias considered arguing. She had no experience fighting dragons and Kalameet was dangerous by even their standards. But without Gwyn or Gwynevere present, Ornstein's word was law amongst the knights. Ciarin seemed un-phased however. She bowed to Ornstein.

"Yes sir. It would be an honour to aid you in battle, Dragon slayer Ornstein."

"Though you flatter me." Ornstein mocked, "But it's rather wasted on me I'm afraid. I need only your strength and resolve."

"In that case, you better show me a good time, Ornstein. I heard your one hell of a demon when it comes to dragons." She cracked a smile, flicking her hair back, her cloak pulsing and rippling.

"That's more like it. I suggest then, in the essence of time, that we depart on our respective tasks once business is concluded here. Ciarin and myself to the Gulch of Omen, the resting place of Kalameet, and you Artorias to Oolacile. To the heart of darkness."

Artorias grunted still attempting to come to terms with the news. The abyss…how was it even possible…

He snapped out of his thought and shrugged. "Ornstein is correct." He muttered sadly. "No reason why we should delay any longer, I shall depart for Oolacile immediately."

"Not quite, Artorias, though your eagerness is admirable. The abyss is different. It has changed. They say…"

Ornstein leaned close to Artorias, the snout of his helmet placed by his ear.

"They say Manus, Father of the abyss, has awoken, deep within the chasms of Oolacile."

He stepped away, Artorias remaining resolute, silently digesting the news.

"However" he continued. "I have some interesting gifts for you, tokens of Gwyn's appreciation for your actions in New Londo those long years ago. They may surely prove of some aid."

Ornstein reached once more into the pouch on his hip, drawing out an amulet. It was a well-crafted silver pendant hung on a gold chain. Its design was intricate, two snakes intertwined to form a ring. Staring at it, it almost appeared as if the snakes were moving, slithering and pulsing before his eyes.

"Take this. A fitting gift for the abyss walker. It is a charm that will repel the dark magic of the abyss. It was forged shortly after you halted it back in New Londo. Gwyn asked me to give it to you. It will likely provide no small amount of aid on your quest."

Artorias took the large pendant, slinging it around his neck, tucking it underneath his armour. It was weightless and he could not feel it even against his skin.

"There is one last thing, Artorias. All knights require a companion. So we found someone who we thought you would favour over a hired hand."

Ornstein snapped his fingers, and moments later something entered the room. To Artorias' surprise it was not a man who entered, neither was it a woman. A large, grey wolf stalked into the room, its focus on Ornstein. It approached him, rubbing its head against his armour. It turned its head, catching sight of Artorias. They instantly recognised each other.

"Sif!" Artorias exclaimed, amazed to see his former companion.

Sif, the great grey wolf, had long been a companion of the knight, their friendship predating his ascension to knighthood. But as Gwyn had tasked him increasingly dangerous missions, Artorias had been forced to leave Sif in Anor Londo until he had grown enough to take care of himself. Sif ran to his side, fondly remembering his old master. Artorias bent down and ran his hands through the wolf's thick mane.

"I couldn't have you going alone now, could I?" Ornstein smiled beneath the mask "It was clear he missed you as much as he missed the thrill of combat at your side. Its time you two get back into the flow of things. Sif will accompany you to Oolacile, as he is as capable of surviving the Abyss as you are, it would seem."

Artorias was overwhelmed. Sif, his oldest friend, by his side again.

"Sif, oh my dear friend! My, you've grown!"

"Then it is farewell, Knight Artorias." Ornstein said, already walking to the doors of the citadel. "I leave you with my most sincere hopes of success. Come back to us Artorias. We don't want to lose another Knight."

He waved over his shoulder and exited the Citadel, walking slowly through the street.

Artorias turned to Ciarin. To his surprise, she looked upset, genuine sadness upon her face. It was a look he had rarely seen upon her features.

"Ciarin? Is there a problem?"

"Be careful. Please just…be careful. I have a bad feeling about this. Kalameet, the abyss, all of it. Promise me Artorias. We've only just been reunited. Promise me by your honour we'll see each other again."

He took Ciaran by the hand, slid his helmet off and smiled.

"I promise we will meet again."

She smiled back, then lightly pecked his lips. She drew her blade, the Golden tracer, and held it to her chest. This was a common sign of respect amongst the knights. With a sweep of her flowing armour, she exited the cathedral at a brisk pace so as to catch up with the now distant Dragon slayer. Artorias gazed after them until they crested the hill and vanished from sight. He slide his helmet back on, checked his sword and fastened his shield to his forearm. He bent down, scratched Sif's ears and rubbed his fur. The wolf cocked its head towards Artorias. He stood up and raised a clenched fist to his heart, a signalling Sif to follow him from now on. But the great wolf needed no prompting. This was his master, the man who saved him years prior and adopted him as a companion. Sif would follow him to the ends of the Earth and to Hell itself. And so the two departed, Artorias eager to prove himself to Lord Gwyn and the other knights, his heart driven by honour, his blade ready at his side. Be it the Dragons or Manus himself, all would fall before the knight.


	4. Artorias of the Abyss

Oolacile. After a long and rather uneventful journey, Artorias and Sif finally arrived at the town. A grand town at the heart of the royal wood, a vast sprawl of untamed forest. It was beautiful, even in the ruined state it had fallen into. Standing on a cliff no small distance from the town, the duo surveyed their surroundings, Artorias peering at the town through his old binoculars. Thick green forest enveloped everything they saw, great stone structures rising from the lush canopy in the distance. A vast coliseum caught the knight's eye, an incredible feat of engineering. Truly, Oolacile was a place of modest beauty. It reminded him of New Londo. He shuddered, remembering what the darkness had done to that place, once the centre of culture, now a half destroyed ruin haunted by ghosts. He had been heralded as the saviour of New Londo, but Artorias felt little but regret at his actions there. He would not allow the same fate to befall Oolacile.

He knelt by Sif's side, taking in the sight. Oolacile was a town built long before Anor Londo, and its age was beginning to show. But there was something wrong. Something off. It was silent. Not just the town, but the forest too. There was nothing. The song of the birds, the sound of the townsfolk, the clattering of irons and the thudding of footsteps. Gone. Even the sound of the trees rustling in the wind was vacant. It was the kind of silence only the dead should truly know. It chilled him to his core. Long had it been since he had heard silence like this. The abyss was here, no doubt about it.

There! A movement amongst the trees. Something was there. Springing into action, Artorias leapt from the cliff, soaring through the air with the majesty of a great bird. He whipped his sword from his sheath, summoning magic about his feet. He plummeted towards the earth, ripping through the canopy of the forest and colliding with the ground at a startling speed, shattering the ground below him. A soft light pooled at his feet, the magic that protected him from harm. He snapped his head up and charging at the creature swinging his great sword in an almighty ark, hurling its deadly blade towards his foe. It struck the ground, splitting the very rock in two and burying itself deeply in the earth. He had missed, deliberately moving the blade a fraction of a second before impact. For the thing before Artorias was no monster or foe. It was a cat.

"Please! I mean no harm!" it wailed, backing away quickly in fear.

Artorias simply stared at the creature, slightly bewildered. What in the heavens was it doing here? He tore his sword from the ground and replaced it upon his back, just as Sif came bounding to his side. He stroked the wolf apologetically, he had left him back on the cliff without warning. Rising to his feet, he and turned back to the cat who was now backed up against one of the large trees that created the forest, paws covering it's face.

"Please, please leave me be!" it howled, raising a paw to Artorias. It was small, hardly any bigger than a kitten. Though its fur was pure white, a black stripe down its back. Which meant it was something much more than a mere animal. This was a forest guardian, an eternal sprite who would one day grow to protect this great land.

"Just go away…" the cat whimpered, hiding its face from Artorias.

Disappointed in himself that he had been so reckless, Artorias threw down his weapons and crouched beside the cat. It was terrified, and with good reason. Artorias cursed internally, he needn't be so eager for blood that he should risk harming an innocent creature.

"My deepest apologies. I mistook you for a threat, though it is clear I was mistaken. I am sorry for startling you so. My name is-"

"Artorias" the cat cut in "A knight no less. You were called here to save Oolacile."

"I…yes. How did you know that?"

"I heard of your coming. The winds carried your name to me, but now even they have perished. Turn back, brave knight. This land is fouled, its inhabitants corrupted. Manus has been awakened and his anger is consuming the lands themselves. Return to whence you came, lest this land swallow you whole. You are not the first traveller here. Please, I beg of you, great and holy knight. Flee this land!"

Artorias was a little perturbed by the guardian's words. He knew the damage would be bad, but it sounded like it was worse than predicted.

"What is your name?"

"Alvina. Alvina Velenta of the Forest guardians."

"Listen to me Alvina. I am going to put an end to this."

"You will fail as so many have before you! If you have any sense of value for your life, please turn back now!" The kitten pleaded with him.

"I cannot, lest I forfeit my honour as a Knight of Gwyn."

"A knight of…Surely you are not…The Abysswalker?"

"I thought you knew of my coming?"

"I was unaware that you were…The Artorias. Yes, yes maybe there is hope for Oolacile. Your advent was predicted, and you could not have come sooner, champion of the abyss. Oolacile is in turmoil, Manus has corrupted the town beyond recognition. But his reach will not end there. If left unchecked, the abyss would extinguish all light in this world!"

"That is why I was dispatched, Forest guardian. I need to know what I will face. What challenges lie before me?"

The cat shuddered.

"Unspeakable things. Horrible, horrible things." It whimpered. Suddenly it let out a cry and hid its face against the bark of tree.

"What? Please, you must tell me" Artorias put a hand on the kitten's back, stroking it and leaning closer.

"They are no longer human…" it whispered "They need to be dealt with…please, you must end their misery!"

"The inhabitants? What happened to them?"

"Their humanity. That fragment of the dark soul that resides within all humans. Manus can tap into it. He can unshackle its power, drive it into uncontrollable mutation. The townsfolk, the mages, they never stood a chance."

"So they have fallen to the abyss…"

Whispers, voices at the back of his mind. The darkness, the never ending darkness. It was there, right in front of him. He could see it. And it could see him. It peered into the essence of his soul, and it whispered to him.

_Come to me Artorias. Be one with the dark._

"Knight!?"

Artorias snapped out of his dream, realising the cat had been calling his name.

"Again, I apologise. It appears my age is catching up with me. Do continue."

"I have said all I can to help you. Please, oh brave, honourable and holy sovereign. Do what you can for Oolacile. Though I fear it may already be too late…"

"Shoulder your fears. I will put an end to this." He rose to his feet. "Will you be safe?"

The creature nodded. He raised his blade, waved to the cat and continued to the town.

"Dusk!"

Artorias looked back along the path to see the cat bounding after him. It was almost a comical sight, the small kitten hurrying clumsily towards him.

"Princess Dusk, she is still within the town! She was abducted. Please, you must save her!"

"Another survivor? Blast, this rather complicates the matter. I will do all I can for her Alvina, but if what you say is true than I fear her safety may be compromised."

"Her safety" the cat panted. "Her safety…it must be secured."

"Why?"

"Her knowledge. She is the last member of the Oolacile royal family. If the great sorceries of Oolacile are to be preserved, she must be saved. She is the only one who knows of their secrets."

"I shall do all I can. But by all accounts…well, time may already have run out for her. Await my return Alvina. I shall not be long."

And with that he turned on his heel and departed at speed, Sif bounding alongside him. The cat too turned away, heading up the path, away from the town and towards the cliff he had sat upon earlier. The town soon loomed before Artorias as he and Sif continued down the forest track. He began to feel cold, the familiar chills he had experienced is his darkest nightmares crept up on him again. This was going to be interesting. He scaled the decayed wall of the city, Sif close behind. Soon he was atop it, and the town lay before him. But the sight was not a pleasant one…

Alvina wasn't lying. The thing before Artorias was human no longer. It was wretched, a twisted and monstrous version of the human it had once been. Its arms, long and arching, nearly twice their usual length hung at its sides. The elbows were inverted, bending the arms at an obscure angle, its hands now heavy claws. Its torso was worn and burnt, its skin a sickeningly pale colour, almost transparent in the harsh sunlight. But its head. It made Artorias sick to his core to gaze upon the terrible creature. Its head was greatly inflated, perhaps twice the size of a normal human. But it was so twisted it was beyond recognition. It was covered in eyes, dozens of them, glowing red with pain and anger. Its mouth was ripped wide open, hundreds of tiny claw like appendages spewing from its throat. Its whole head, the parts that weren't consumed with the blank, staring eyes, was wreathed in thorn like spikes. Rough patches of scales were visible across its entire being. But perhaps worse than its appearance was its voice. He had expected a moan, a screech, some inhuman sound from such an inhuman figure. But it didn't. It laughed. It laughed and laughed. The whole town, all of them laughing. It was the most haunting sound the man had heard in his life. Did they even know what had become of themselves?

And To think, that this awful creature was once human. Artorias quickly dashed this thought from his mind. If he allowed himself to feel compassion for this beast, even for a moment he would lose his focus. And looking at the town, teeming with countless hordes of these monstrosities, focus would be more than crucial to him.

He studied the town. The whole thing was built in levels, a great hole, leading down to the flat arena at its base. A cathedral. A market. That coliseum. A row of houses. A grand staircase that lead down a cliff face. Down. The abyss. This was surely his destination. He studied the town once more, his vantage point from upon its high walls gave him an almost unimpeded view of the settlement. He memorised the route to the stairs. It was perhaps a half hours walk at a slow pace from here. It would take Artorias minutes.

Artorias took a deep breath, checking for Sif. The wolf was by his side, teeth barred, his back arched. He slowly drew his sword, allowing it to fill his soul, resonating deep within him. He and the blade were one. One in front of him, back turned. Several more a few feet away. Dozens at the base of the town. The creatures were everywhere. He placed his shield on his back in place of his sword, which now rested in his hands. He wouldn't have time to block, there were too many. He would have to dispatch them quickly. This was not going to be easy, yet he had no other option. He was ready.

Three…

Two…

One…

Exploding into action the knight hurled himself from the wall. He shot forward, blade at his side. The monster turned, just in time to see the black face of death hurtling towards him. He swung, the blade slicing through flesh and bone like it was nothing. The creatures head flew off its shoulders from the force, blood erupting from its neck. The other fiends were aware of him now.

Two on either side, one centre. He ran forward, roaring with the fuel of battle. His cry cut through the air, the strength of gods at his heels, moving almost impossibly fast. Contact! He sliced to the left and sheared one of them in two. He hooked his foot round its remains and hurled it at the closets beast, knocking it off balance. Sprinting past it, his blade buried itself in the skull of another. He tore it out, swinging it around and slamming its tip into the back of the one he had passed. It howled and fell to the ground. Placing his boot on its shoulder he tore his blade free, blood and sinew drenching his armour. He had never felt more alive.

Behind him! Damn, one of the beasts had flanked him. He swung his blade, but it was going to be too late. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, the great grey wolf leapt upon the hideous thing, digging its teeth deep into the monster's throat. It flailed and screamed as Sif tore it apart, ripping through flesh and splintering bone. He bit deep, severing its neck. The beast lay still.

"Good…good boy." He panted. "Not finished yet Sif. Let's go."

Bolting forward, the two leapt from the highest level of the town into the open area at its base. He looked down. There were dozens of them. He smiled to himself. This would be fun."

He let out the piercing war cry once more, the creatures turning to face him. He accelerated through the air, roaring madly at them, weapon in hand.

One of them didn't get out of the way in time. He landed upon it, crushing it beneath his boots and plunging his sword deep into its spine. There was series of sickening cracks as he snapped the thing in two, then knelt down upon it, bowing his head.

For a moment, the corrupted humans unsure how to proceed. This thing before them was insane, its power immeasurable. Finally, their corrupted minds sent them into the frenzy Artorias had expected. One of them ran at him madly, clawed hands ready to strike. He kept his head bowed until it was within reach. Perfect.

Artorias ripped the blade from its rest and swung it in a great ark, slicing the beast arm off. It spiralled into the air, spewing dark blood upon the pack. Before it could react, the sword was already in motion again, piercing its chest. Artorias wrenched the sword free and vaulted over the dying creature, slicing through another with a downward slash from mid-air. He landed and was instantly surrounded. No problem. Not for Artorias. He span around, a whirlwind of steel, whipping his sword through the pack carving through their exposed flesh. Slicing, hacking and swinging his blade madly, the knight went into a berserk frenzy. Rage consumed him, driving him forward. These things, these god damned monsters. They were not human. They were not human. They were NOT human. He screamed again, cutting open a rib cage followed by a kicked to its exposed organs. It was all a blur now, blood and bone flying all around him. He caught a glimpse of Sif, tackling the things to the ground and savaging them before they could react. It was a massacre, the force of the man carving through the monsters. He almost felt a sense of pity for them. Outmatched was an understatement. His armour was impenetrable, his speed impossible, his blade unstoppable

One of the creatures caught him with a glancing blow, sending his weapon spiralling out his hand. Bastard! But he was too far gone. The furry of battle flowed through him. He didn't need the damn sword. Nothing could halt him now.

One of them leapt at him, but Artorias utilised his unbelievable speed. Like the wind itself, he wheeled around, slamming his fist into the monster's throat, crushing its neck and hurling it into the crowd knocking many others to the ground. He hurled himself at them, smashing his boot into one of their skulls, its head bursting into a red mist. His fist rammed into the chest of another, piercing its skin instantly. He felt for its still beating heart, grabbed it and crushed. It roared and he flung its lifeless corpse away, crashing into one of its friends with a sickening crunch. He grabbed an arm, ramming his open palm into its elbow, snapping it like a twig. An exposed leg, a quick strike to the shin sent another flying. No longer could he distinguish one creature from another. They were all just flesh now, a series of weak points and kill spots to his expertly trained eyes. Another skull burst under his boot, he back flipped over another and snapped its neck. Punching into one of their backs he tore out a spine and flung it away. But it was becoming overwhelming, there were seemingly endless numbers of these accursed things. Suddenly he became aware of Sif, bounding towards him, something clutched in his mouth. The wolf flicked its head, hurling something into the air towards Artorias. His sword!

He leapt into the air and raised his hand, catching the blade. In one swift and decisive movement he slashed diagonally before him, cleaving several of the advancing monsters in half. And it was over. He landed, swinging the blade round him in another, massive arc. The whole encounter had lasted no more than a few minutes. A sea of splintered bones and destroyed corpses lay before him. Insurmountable odds? What a joke. These poor creatures never stood a chance.

Sif barked, running down the street. He looked up, one of the things was still alive. Suddenly on his feet, he sprinted towards it, sword already in hand. Almost instantly he was upon it. A single stab to the heart felled the monster. He drew his sword from its chest, flicked the blood from its blade and placed it upon his back, this time certain they were all finished. Interestingly however, the thing had led him into the cathedral. He looked around, examining the decaying brickwork. This place would have been quite the sight in its time. But it was a fragile relic now, a victim of time. But it was not the architecture that drew Artorias' attention. At the end of the room was a rather peculiar sight. An enormous, glistening crystal, almost the same size as Artorias himself. He approached it, sensing something was amiss before he had even reached it. Then he saw it. Trapped within the crystal, suspended before him, was the Princess Dusk. She was unmoving, a look of horror upon her features. He approached the crystal, running his hand along its cold exterior, examining it with morbid interest. He peered deep within it, studying the princess's face.

The princess stared at him, unblinking, her eyes following him about the room. It was a horrifying thought terrible fate to meet with, but Artorias was here to put a stop to it.

He placed a hand upon the crystal, gazing at the trapped princess. She was a beautiful woman, every feature of her exquisitely defined. Her rich, flowing dress was of the finest quality, her face even with a look of fear managed to retain an innate beauty.

"Damn you." He muttered. "Of course, one had to get themselves caught up in affairs that didn't concern them." He rummaged in his pouch, pulling out a small, cracked bone. The thing was tiny and looked as though it belonged to a rodent. This was not the case. The crystal was a creation of magic, impenetrable by blade or metal. Artorias was proficient in magic use, but he knew not of how to deal with this. He looked at the bone in his hand. When crushed, the bone could be used to transport the user to any destination desired by them. It was to be his means of escape. He had but one. But no. the gods had decided that this would be his fate, he would be forced to sacrifice his only possible means of escape should all things fail. He crushed the bone in his hand, muttered "Anor Londo" and then hurled the dust at the crystal and the imprisoned princess. It shimmered, the air rippled and she vanished before him. The healers of Anor Londo would undoubtedly be able to free her from her torment. He slammed his fist upon the ground, cursing his misfortune and that of those around him. This whole thing had been a mess from the moment he arrived in the Royal wood. He thought of the countless humans he had killed on his way into the decaying city. Damn the abyss. It was to blame for this. He held on to that thought, allowing his anger to give him strength. Whence the abyss has been halted, his quest would be over. It was as simple as that. He knew the reality was different, but for now he needed the comfort. Even the strongest of men had a point at which they could stand strong no longer.

He left the cathedral, reached the top of the great staircase and descended. The abyss was calling him, welcoming him back to its cold embrace. The pendant gifted to him by Ornstein began give of a warming sensation against his chest. He could feel the whispering voices of the abyss rescinding, the shadows falling away. And there it was. At the foot of the great staircase. A cave. Black and unwelcoming. He had reached his destination.

"Had to be a cave, didn't it Sif?"

The two sat around the small make-shift campfire, staring deeply into the flames. Flame, such a fleeting thing. That was where all this had started. Heat and cold. Life and death. Light and dark. Dark. It was so dark. Even the fire seemed black. It was all black. Everything. All of Lordran. The whole world. Shadow was the only thing that seemed absolute to Artorias. For even when all light had gone, what remained? Darkness.

He shuddered. It was the abyss. He couldn't let it get to him, not here. He needed his strength, in body and in mind. Sif slept quietly, illuminated by the fire. Such an innocent creature, surely there was still good in this world. He turned his attention back to the flame, trying to make sense of its ever changing form. What was the flame? Was it little more than heat and light? Was there truly some great power behind it? Artorias could not believe that such a small thing was the cause of so much. The great cities, the age of Lords, all had come about because of it. And the curse. The damned curse. Shapes began to form in the fire before him. He saw Lordran, Boletaria to the east, Anor Londo, Drangleic. Drangleic. He had almost forgotten about his old life. Or rather, his new life. He had thought he could remain as Jeddit the hunter for the rest of his days. Yet here he was, Artorias once more. If only he had ignored that letter. But then, what would have become of Lordran?

It didn't matter anymore. He was here now, and little would change that. Suddenly he heard a small voice behind him.

"So…you made it."

He turned slowly. Perched on a rock above him was Avlina, the kitten from before.

"You? I thought you returned home?" He asked suspiciously.

"I heard the sounds from the town. I came to see if you had survived." She leapt down onto his lap. "You…slaughtered them."

"They were monsters. They needed to die." He said defensively.

"They look as if some terrible monster ripped them apart in a frenzy!" She squeaked.

"I lost my temper. That is all." He grumbled.

The cat poked his armour angrily. "You need to be careful, Artorias! You can't lose your mind to the Abyss!" she leapt onto his shoulder. "I'm trying to help. You need to keep your sanity, lest the abyss creep into your soul."

He picked her up and placed her back on the ground. "Duly noted."

She sighed, and began to walk away. "Good luck, great knight." She said, before dashing off.

The cave mouth reeked of the abyss, black veins growing from it, spreading across the walls and floor. It was here, there was no doubt about it. And there it was again. The chill. Even the pendant could not stop it. It may block the darkness of the abyss, but it could do nothing for the darkness within Artorias. Cautiously, the man and his wolf entered the cave. Whether they would return, that was a different story. The cave appeared like any other, dark and vast. Stalactites hung from the roof of its great caverns, both those and the very rock tinged with a purple hue. It was unsettling, for once again there was no sound to speak of. No wind, no echo, the sound of water dripping form the cave. Even his own footsteps seemed devoid of sound. This was wrong. There was no way this place had formed naturally. Was this the extent of Manus' power? Could he possibly have created this vast space alone?

Deeper and deeper they journeyed, but the cave showed little sign of reaching its end. He became very aware that they were not alone here. The twisting tunnels and great caverns were home to something else, he could feel it. But what? He stopped, placing a hand upon the ground. Then he bent down and smelled the very rocks themselves, Sif watching curiously. Yes, that was it. Unmistakeable. The smell of the Dark Soul itself. There was a massive amount of humanity in this place, perhaps more of those beast from Oolacile. Yet somehow Artorias doubted that. They had not passed any yet, it is unlikely they would hide themselves. It was something else.

"Don't go"

Artorias whipped round, blade in hand. There was nothing, just the vast empty cave. He had heard something, there was no doubt about it. A voice, a child's voice, he was sure of it. Was he losing his mind? He lowered his weapon, turning around to check the dark corners of the cave. Raising the silver pendant, he unleashed its power, bright light spilling from it, pushing back the shadows. There was nothing. Only the dark walls of the cave. Shuddering, he replaced the pendant. Suddenly, he became shockingly aware of the sensation of a hand upon his shoulder. He snapped round again, blade ready. Nothing. He checked Sif. The wolf seemed un-phased by the cave.

"Help me."

Nothing. There was no one. He gripped tightly to the pendant. He must be losing his sanity. Curse the dark. He continued his passage through the cave, but he had barely progressed a step when;

"Daddy?"

He lashed around, expecting to be met with nothing once more. He wished that was the case. What met his eyes turned his guts inside out.

A child, no taller than Artorias' waist stood about a meter away. But it was no longer human. It was jet black, resembling a standing shadow. It was surrounded with an aura of white light, making it stand out against the blackness of the cave. It had no features, except for two white holes where its eyes had been. It stood vacantly, the knight wasn't even sure if it was aware of its surrounding. He had seen this once before. It was a terrible fate to be met with. The child had been consumed by the humanity that lived within it. Not corrupted, not mutated, simply devoured. When exposed to certain elements, the fragment of the Dark Soul amplified itself, growing within its host until it as large enough to take them over completely. Then they became this. The child was still inside there, unable to think freely anymore, its thoughts little more than fragments of what it had been. Maybe it thought it was alive. Maybe it thought it was still human. But it was nothing anymore. These were called Human effigies. The echo of a long lost human, its near lifeless corpse animated by the power of the Dark Soul. They were prisoners of their own bodies, and unlike the mutated beasts in Oolacile, he felt a wave of pity for it.

"Daddy?" it muttered again, taking a shuddering step towards him.

He stepped back. The thing was pure humanity now. It was dangerous, even to touch. Did it know? Was it even aware how dead it was? That it was little more than a corpse, animated by darkness.

"Daddy." It called. "Please help me."

Its voice was shuddering and hollow. He had never seen anything so terrible in all his days. He cursed the abyss out loud, how could such a thing happen? If only he had arrived sooner, he could have stopped all this…

Slowly, he raised his sword as the child took another uncertain steps, its arms outstretched towards him. He raised the sword high above his head and closed his eyes

"Forgive me." He whispered.

The blade came crashing down with immense force. There was the sound of metal slicing through flesh, then silence. He opened his eyes. It was over.

"Daddy?"

Shuddering, every hair on his body stood on end, Artorias slowly turned his head to see the source of the voice. Sif stood by his side growling, his back arched.

"By Gwyn…"

Crawling from every crack and crevice in the room, illuminated by the white aura around them, they appeared. Dozens of them, men women and children. There must have been hundreds of them, all shuffling about in the darkness, their blank eyes staring vacantly at Artorias. He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. It was too terrible to even begin to understand. The people…they must have retreated to the cave. A place even those hideous fiends in the town were afraid to enter. And they had died here, scared alone, begging for help. That's what they were saying. Their voices. It was their last memory before they had become Effigies. And now they were stuck, not alive, not dead.

They all gathered in a mass a good distance away from Artorias, as if for warmth. Here, this is where it had happened. They were reliving their last moments, huddled in a group as the darkness consumed them. He couldn't begin to fathom what it must have been like for them.

He wanted to help them. He wanted to do something. But there was nothing. The only reason he and Sif were even able to exist here was through the protective magic woven into Artorias' being. And he could not wield that, only allow it to protect him. There was nothing he could do for them now. He looked past them. The path continued on the other side of the crowd. He would have to get past these things, right through the thick of the crowd. Sif growled at the wretched abominations. The wolf was impervious to them, as he was not born of the Dark soul. There was nothing they could do to hurt him. But Artorias, though he himself was not human, was still susceptible to their aura. It was pure soul energy, powerful in small doses, deadly when concentrated. He clutched the pendant. It was warm, soft and pleasant to hold. He allowed it to resonate deep within him, allowing it's power to intertwine with the magic deep within him. The magic he had called upon so many times. The two forces met, the powers flowed freely together, melding within his soul. And then they amplified, white light wreathing him, encompassing his whole body and spilling out into the darkness of the room. It gathered and swirled around him before gently sinking back into his flesh. This would be enough.

Carefully, the pair edged towards the horde of Effigies. They shambled and muttered, some of their words indistinguishable. Few turned to meet him, blank eyes staring vacantly ahead, following his movement. A pair of the creatures walked in front of his path, holding hands and whispering to each other. He listened closely, making out their mumbled conversation.

"I hear it"

"It found us. Its over"

"You won't leave me?"

"Never"

"I love you"

"I love you too"

"I'll miss you."

"We will always be together."

The couple turned to look at each other. The taller of the two leaned close to the other until they were face to face, as if ready to kiss. It gazed at its partner for a moment before appearing to lose interest and glanced back at the walls of the cave. The two wandered off, leaving Artorias and Sif a clear route to the exit. He made it to the other side of the horde, turning back one last time. There were so many, man sized, child sized, all different. Some could still be distinguished as female. There was that couple again. All of them, trapped by their very souls, condemned to remain here in the twilight of undeath. This wasn't fair.

Artorias' grip tightened and he clenched his teeth. Whatever was responsible would pay for this.

He left the sorry sight, skirting around the last of the Effigies and making his way into a vast open cavern. The room was huge, its corners obscured by darkness. It appeared empty, but… there was something here. He was sure of it now. He room almost felt artificial, as if the shadows were painted by an unseen hand. He could feel its power, immense in stature. What was it? It wasn't the Dark soul. Was it? No, it was something more. What was that, surely it couldn't be. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent. By the Lords of fire, it was. The scent was the Dark Soul no doubt, but Artorias, neigh, anyone had ever felt it in such concentration before. Whatever was here, its power was impossible. The fragments of that black soul were never supposed to be brought back together, never supposed to be found in such strength. But here, the place reeked of it. His head span, his legs buckled. It was too much. The scent was overpowering. There was something here, something he could not even begin to fathom. He coughed and chocked, pushing the feelings out of mind and staggering to his feet. It was impossible, how could such a creature exist? His mind was decaying, age was truly catching up on him. There was nothing there. Wait.

There was.

There was something there.

Horror, absolute horror consumed him. He couldn't move, fear lashing him to the ground. The shadows, the very shadows themselves were moving. They were shifting, something emerging from deep within them. Swirling, dancing in a hypnotic motion, the darkness shifted, revealing something he wished he had never seen. It was enormous, towering leagues above the knight. Its skin was hard and black, darker than the blackness of the abyss itself. Its arms were titanic, thicker than tree trunks, one clutching a devastating looking axe cruelly crafted from human bone. Its head was a mass of explosively grown bones, sweeping backwards in a way that was strangely beautiful. Red lights could be seen all across its massive frame, shining through cracks in its brittle flesh. It swung its massive frame towards Artorias, slow and lumbering in its movement. Was this he? Primeval man? It was frightening to see how violently Humanity could mutate. The beasts on the surface, the Effigies, nothing compared to this. But there was no doubt any more. This was Manus. Father of the Abyss. Darkness incarnate.

It saw him. It knew him.

The Abyss walker. The holy Templar who carried light wherever he went. He who would cast away the shadows of the abyss. Manus let out a deep, echoing roar. This little creature was nothing. And Artorias felt the same. He gazed at Manus, a fear the likes of which he had never felt consumed him. Manus's power was nearly limitless, a monster forged from spite and hatred, a master of darkness. How could he possibly bring it down?

He shook his head. No! This beast, this foul engine of chaos was but another unwritten victory for the knight. Its power was great, there was no doubting that. But he was Artorias. He would win. Leaping into the air, Artorias roared, his blade aimed perfectly for the beast's skull. This would be it, the greatest victory Artorias had ever known! Triumph over Darkness!

The great beast seemed almost unaware of the knight as he hurled himself forward. But at the last second, with a burst of impossible speed, the titanic monster flung itself out of the way of his blade. Artorias struck the ground, splitting rock and stone. What in the heavens?

Sif stood by him, the two staring down the titanic monster. It raised its axe and bellowed, a drawn out and inhuman sound. Then it struck.

Artorias and Sif were ready. As the massive axe swung through the air, the two had already leapt clear of the devastating weapon. It buried itself deep in the ground, leaving Manus wide open to a counter attack. He saw the window and took it. He leapt onto the axe, running its length and onto the bests arm. He flipped nimbly onto its shoulder, grabbing a tuft of black fur and met it face to face. Raising the almighty great sword above his head, Artorias focused all his power into the blade. The blue glow turned white, and light erupted from the blade. Roaring with primal furry, he plunged the blade deep into the creatures skull.

It screamed, jerking and convulsing wildly. Artorias ripped the blade free and jumped from atop the beast back to the ground where Sif sat, watching in awe. Manus bucked and screamed, deep purple blood erupting from its broken skull. Artorias was sure he had landed the killing blow. But slowly, the beast stopped. It clutched its face, cleaved almost in two by the holy sword. Shadow swirled around its skull, and then. Artorias looked on, awe struck. Manus removed is hand, the creature's skull now perfectly reformed. It laughed, an ear splitting howl of triumph.

He swept up the sword once more. He ignored what he had just seen, it was just a trick. He would simply have to fell the beast before it could regenerate its wounds. He could this. He rushed forward once more, blade in hand and Sif at his side.

Something, a huge black fist from nowhere powered into Artorias. It smashed into his side, driving the wind from his lungs. He felt his armour breaking at the sudden blow. Pain surged through him, all-consuming and destructive. His vision blurred and he was hurled across the room. He struck the wall, hard. There was a loud snap and the sound of metal grinding on rock. His left arm shattered, bone splintering through the skin. He fell to the ground roaring in pain, his destroyed arm hung limply at his side. The magic protecting Artorias from the abyss was gone. He was exposed and could already feel the darkness eating into his heart. Planting his sword in the ground, the knight pulled himself to his feet, weapon ready in hand, greeted by the sight of the terrible beast.

He staggered forward, armour dented and battered, the azure cloth stained with blood, his sword cracked and chipped. He hardly resembled the mighty warrior he was supposed to be. He let out a low growl, walking stutteringly towards Manus, his left arm swaying by his side, wrenched and broken.

"Gonna…Kill…you…" he mumbled.

But it was useless. He could feel it. The burning. The abyss was swarming into him, corrupting his soul. Even now he was failing, falling into darkness. He had little time, for soon he would become a creature of the abyss, a hollow shell of himself. Manus had to die. That was all he could focus on. It would all end. All of it. As soon as that monster was dead.

It wasn't fair. He had braved fire and rain, surmounted the impossible and saved countless lives in his many adventures. He had found friends, love and even a new life in Drangleic. He was finally going to give up his old ways and start a new existence, one of peace and prosperity. But all that was slipping away from, like water in his hands. He thought of Ornstein and Ciaran, of Sif and Drangleic. Ciaran. She would never know. He would never see her again. He allowed a tear to roll down his face. It wasn't fair.

Sif! If the magic protecting Artorias was gone, then the great wolf was vulnerable too. He looked to his side. The faithful hound was there, watching his companion slowly fall to darkness. The wolf knew something was wrong, but there was nothing it could do. Artorias staggered towards his oldest and most faithful. But he could already see the black smoke creeping up the hound's legs. Sif had little time left.

"Sif…there you are. Your… you're a good boy Sif. Very good…very…" Artorias muttered, his vision cloudy, thoughts distorted.

Manus backed away, letting out a deep growl. It knew its prey was finished. He would let the darkness take him.

Sif remained at Artorias side. He reached out with his good hand and stroked the wolf's head softly. He looked up and saw Ciarin, Gough and Ornstein before him. There was a look of sadness upon each of their faces, and they stared pitifully at him.

"Ah…your all here…good...good. I'm sorry, for I have availed you nothing. The spread of the abyss…I am sorry. But I was not strong enough. Forgive me, my friends." He wept, bowing his head and leaning heavily upon his sword.

He looked again. They were gone.

Manus roared with laughter, its hideous voice echoing through the cave. Artorias became angry at its mockery. How dare the monster do this to him. Had it not the honour to finish him? Well, it may have bested Artorias, but I would not get Sif.

"I won't…won't…let you die here Sif…no…not you too."

Jarringly, with little balance left in him, Artorias staggered to his feet, planting his blade firmly in the ground and reaching for his shield. Manus roared. What was the little creature doing?

Artorias, The Abysswalker. An unbendable will of steel. Manus should have remembered who he was dealing with. With the last of his fleeting power, Artorias raised his shield. It had been upon his back the entire encounter, and he finally called upon its power. A power he had always hoped he would never be forced to use. The abyss would consume this land. It was no longer safe here. The shield glowed, humming, slowly turning white. The noise intensified and the shield reformed itself into a ball of pure light in Artorias hand, casting back the shadows of the room. As the light struck Manus he screamed, forcing the hideous fiend into retreat. Artorias looked at Sif, whispered "Good bye", then hurled the ball of light at the confused wolf. There was a flash. Sif was gone.

With the last of his power, Artorias saved his faithful companion. Sif had been cast through time, forward, to an age where the abyss was no longer a threat. He would be safe there, or as close to safe as was possible in Lordran. It was not over yet however. Revenge heavy in his now corrupted heart, Artorias staggered towards the Dread father.

"Face me Manus! Face me!" He roared, his voice terrifying, distorted and corrupted, yet no less menacing.

Manus bellowed, hurling itself forward, coming face to face with Artorias. He was nothing of what he had been. His armour was battered and dented, the azure cloth now black, purple smoke trailing from his body. His left arm hung limply at his side, bone and metal all wrenched into one. Manus growled, mere inches from his face. The creature was truly terrible, a monstrosity that had to die.

"You, you are nothing Manus! You hear me? Nothing!" But the words never reached his lips. All that spewed from his mouth a deep and hollowing roar. It was inhuman, rattling, screeching sound, akin to a beast of the abyss. He collapsed once more, and could no longer hold off the abyss. He was doomed now, he would become a creature of darkness, killing any who tried to stop his mad rampage. As the last fragment of his souls was consumed, Artorias thought of his lost life once more, his last thought as a man. And with his passing breath, he muttered softly to himself.

"I'll miss you…Ciarin."


	5. Epilogue: The Passing of Artorias

~Many centuries later~

The Creature stood on the other side of the Coliseum from the un-dead warrior. The thing was huge, a towering creature wielding an immense sword, wrapped in what was likely once an impressive coat of arms. The warrior stared at the beast, its face obscured by a steel helm. The foul thing snapped its head towards the warrior, letting out an ear splitting screech as it did. The two had been duelling for long time now. Both were worn down, the hideously deformed knight and the undead. The undead braced itself, raising its shield in defence and flicking its long sword from its sheath. The monstrous knight hurled itself across the room, its left arm hanging by its side. But the warrior was ready. In an impossible feat, the undead side stepped the monster, slashing back with its blade. The beast skidded past him, howling in pain. The undead warrior span around, hurling wicked mage fire at him. It struck the monster, burning through him and sending it crashing to the ground, crumpled and defeated.

The undead warrior stood over the corpse of the beast that had tried to kill him. The warrior had journeyed far to reach Oolacile, only to find it a corrupt sprawl of death and madness. Black veins wreathed the whole town, and its residents had become unholy beasts of Darkness. The warrior had come to halt the abyss, a threat to the land and a fear amongst the few who survived here. But before the hero had even reached the caves of the Abyss, it had stumbled across something it had never expected.

The warrior had heard tales and legends. Artorias. The abyss walker. Accordingly, he had entered the town centuries before to halt the abyss himself. But something had happened, and the knight never returned. But many claimed they had seen him, a withered, decayed creature that stalked the streets of Oolacile. A wolf, large and grey stood by the undead warrior's side. The great wolf had attacked the undead in the royal forest surrounding the town, but the hero proved too strong for the wolf. The warrior, rather than kill it, took the wolf as its companion. Together, the two had journeyed to the town, but the wolf had insisted on heading towards the coliseum. And it was here the warrior had met Artorias. But he was sad to see the legends were correct, for the monster that had tried to kill him was the great knight no longer. The fight had been short, hardly a true test of the hero's skill. Corruption had truly set in on the once holy Templar.

The warrior held the corrupted heroes soul in its hand, feeling the power of Artorias flowing through him. The wolf gazed up at the hero, whining. It walked over to the corpse of the crazed knight and bowed its head. What on earth was it doing?

"I knew you would come." A soft voice called out.

The hero turned to the doors of the coliseum to see whom had spoken. Before the hero was a woman, dressed in black with a long flowing cloak. She was clutching a gravestone and a white cat sat upon her shoulder.

"O chosen undead, you have journeyed far. You, in your great stature, would chose to save Oolacile? Then you have the thanks of many. But your quest must not end with the Abyss. You have a journey to finish, your quest yet to be completed."

The cat hopped from her shoulders and approached too.

"We must thank you. The man you slew, he was long lost to the darkness. Finally, he can be at rest, thanks to you." It said to the warrior, who merely looked at the two from behind it's steel helmet.

The woman walked over to the corpse, lying twisted and broken upon the cold floor. She lifted the flagstones, revealing a deep grave. Gently and with all the care of a woman with her new born child, she placed the immense corpse in the grave. She placed the gravestone heavily upon the ground, marking the point where the knight had fallen. The wolf and the cat moved to her side. She stood up and turned to the hero. She was crying.

"Thank you. Oh thank you my hero. Truly, if there is any hope for this land, it rests with you. Now go, fulfil your legend. We are forever in your debt." She gestured to her two companions. The warrior said nothing. She glanced at the soul in his hand. Souls were usually brilliant and white, but this one was deep purple, corrupted by the abyss.

"That is his soul is it not? I understand your power to consume souls" They are able to strengthen your own power. But…may I ask that you would part with your prize? I know it is much to ask, but I wish to pay my respects to Artorias with this soul. Please?"

The warrior held up the soul, staring at it through the helmet. The warrior gazed at it for quite some time, as if he were about to consume it, then handed it to the woman.

"Thank you, oh thank you great hero. Now you must depart. Once Manus has fallen, the lords will surely follow. Go now, mighty hero. Make yourself a legend."

The warrior nodded and turned towards the door of the coliseum. It wave over his shoulder at the group, then departed without a word. It had a mission to accomplish.

"A mysterious hero for a mysterious time" Ciaran muttered.

She knelt by the grave stone, placing the soul of Artorias on the ground before it. Sif and Alvina sat beside her, gazing at the glowing soul. As it slowly faded away, Ciaran began to sob gently once more.

"Artorias…I miss you."

And though it was impossible, she could swear she felt Artorias at her side, his hand upon her shoulder She wept bitterly, her pain reaching the hearts of the two creatures at her side, who joined her in her sorrow. It was over now, Artorias was finally at rest. Ciaran dismissed the two powerful beings, for they too had tasks to complete themselves. Alvina returned to the forest, now its great protector. Sif bounded after the undead warrior, determined to help its new master. But Ciaran, she had nothing. Ornstein lay dead, fallen at the hands of the very warrior she had faced moments before. But she felt no hatred or anger towards the hero. It was his destiny, his only option. Ornstein had opposed him, and he had paid the price. Truly, he was a warrior to be reckoned with. So Ciaran let the hero pass, its legend still unwritten, the challenge of facing the great lords still lay before it. She sat down with her back to the grave. She was old, her life was fading. This place, the grave of Artorias, was all she had left now. She had no purpose, no will to continue. She closed her eyes, allowing rest to take her. And finally, she was reunited with her lover once more. She was finally at peace.

The End.


End file.
